


Of Sewers and Chinese Food

by MajesticMoments



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John Watson perspective, Oh dear John Watson, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sherlolly sorta, post-s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 05:45:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9534254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajesticMoments/pseuds/MajesticMoments
Summary: Molly Hooper was one of the nicest people he knew. One too many times had he seen her set Sherlock in his place. Yes. Molly Hooper scared the crap out of him. [Sherlolly,-ish, Post S4, John Watson Perspective]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had a horrible story idea that made me incredibly sad. This is not it. This one is happier....
> 
> I haven't decided whether to do the sad one yet. 
> 
> I really need to get back to reality but this idea stopped all means of being a productive member of society for an hour or two today. Whoops.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy <3
> 
> P.S. I do not know any landmarks or streets in London. So... just keep that in mind. It doesn't really matter. But just an FYI.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to ACD & BBC Sherlock. This is just a story I made up about them.

His suspicions were confirmed today. It was fate. It had to be. Because only fate could design something so ridiculous.  
  
They were on a case. And then on a chase.

That led to the sewers.  
  
But that didn’t sway Sherlock. He only said “ _try not to breathe_ ” before jumping into the murky waters. John hesitated. This was not sanitary. The smell abhorrent. Yup. He was going to hurl.  
  
And he did. After Sherlock pulled him in.  
  
If they caught the perpetrator. Maybe it would be worth it. Maybe.  
  
And they did catch him. But as it turned out, the guilty man hadn’t gone down there at all. Sherlock had only said he did. John being the one who followed several strides short, after the sprinting Sherlock who took the lead, didn’t question Sherlock when he said “ _down here_ ”.  
  
It was a _shortcut._ One of Sherlock’s _shortcuts_. Apparently, the fastest way to intercept the man.  
  
Sherlock somehow found the entire situation funny. John thought the opposite. He jumped into a sewer, for a _shortcut_. And Sherlock could only laugh about it.

It took several reluctant policemen to keep him from punching Sherlock the second time.

None of the taxis would take them. Lestrade only laughed and told them to walk. Saying the new police cars Scotland Yard sprung out for this year were for employees only. No "civilians." Not that the rules had stopped them before.  
  
Now as he walked down the London streets, he felt like a child in a tantrum. But he couldn’t stop the rage. Maybe he was overreacting. Just a bit.

But nothing was worth walking along, sopping wet, smelling of waste, for a case that Sherlock had barely warranted to be a five.  They were like stones in a river the way people fled. Repulsed at the sight of them. But he was certain the smell tipped them all off first. That set off the alarms in their brain that something horrendous was coming.  
  
Even after stripping himself of his coat, the smell was very strong. And he was freezing. His jacket sat inside a clear plastic bag that he carried. He should have thrown it away. The jacket. But it was one Mary had gotten for him. Before. It wasn’t that it was a gift exactly. And it wasn't the _only_ one. But just one of the odds and ends that a wife buys for one’s husband when out making their shopping rounds. He had several jackets from that time of life. And this was only one of them.    
  
But it didn’t help the slight ache in his chest when he looked at the sodden jacket. Certainly someone somewhere could fix it back. He probably wouldn’t wear it again considering, but still.  
  
They were nowhere near Baker Street. No where near his own house. And here he was, yet again, still following Sherlock.

At least John was the one without a bloody nose. John reveled in that, at least. Stomping his way down the streets. John thought about the ways he could get back at Sherlock. Certainly there was something. He could probably ask Lestrade to help. Possibly Molly too.

He was formulating a plan when he stopped short. Seeing Sherlock going up a set of steps to the front of a house. He hadn’t thought about where they were at. Only surrendering to the fact that they had a long trek back to Baker Street. And they were still a ways away from there.  
  
But Sherlock stopped, here, at... Molly’s house.

She wouldn’t be home though. She was at work. They had visited her just this morning for the case.  
  
Speaking from the foot of the stairs, “Sherlock, I don’t think Molly would appreciate us breaking into her flat and leaving a…” He stopped.

Noticing that what Sherlock held was not his lock picking tools, but a key. Sherlock opened the front door, walked in, leaving it open for John to enter. His mind went a bit blank. He looked to the right, then to the left. As if someone would be watching him. He walked up.  
  
“Hello,” John said to no one. More of a precautionary hello to see if anyone would answer.  
  
“You know she’s at work.” Sherlock said bluntly, as if he’d forgotten.  
  
“Yes, well. Just wanted to be sure.” John’s anger gone for the moment, quietly closing the door behind him.

Molly Hooper was one of the nicest people he knew. But she also scared the living daylights out of him. One too many times had he seen her set Sherlock in his place. And the great Sherlock Holmes never rebutted. Not a peep. Yes. Molly Hooper scared the crap out of him. Right now, he was afraid she’d show up. Scold them for tainting her house, her hardwood floors, her furniture.  
  
John had only been here a couple of times. 221B and his own home the usual places for gatherings. They were closer to Bart’s, to the Yard. To everything. John had always wondered why Molly lived so far.  
  
Her place was clean. Pristine. Elegant. Probably best to stay off the carpet, John thought to himself as he stayed on the mat by the door.  
  
But not Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock had already disappeared from the entry way area. Leaving his shoes behind on the mat. His own clear plastic bag with his now soiled belstaff coat by the door. John could hear the tap running in a bathroom somewhere. John figured he was washing his hands.  
  
“Um. Probably best to stay there.” He heard Sherlock say as he came from another room. Stating what he had thought just moments ago.

It was a funny sight to see. Sherlock, with his bloody nose, his pants rolled up, barefoot. Also looking a bit timid. You could see him second guessing whether coming here was a good idea. Sherlock was just as scared of the pathologist as John. Probably more so.  
  
Sherlock then proceeded upstairs. Leaving John alone in the entry way. He probably looked like a stray dog. He felt like a stray. Trying to make himself as small as possible on the mat. Reluctant to step off the one place he deemed okay for him to stay. It was quiet. He tried not to move. Every time, he could feel water rolling down his leg. Dripping on to the welcome mat. The plastic bag rustling if he moved. In the silence he could hear the upstairs plumbing. Possibly a sink. Moments later. Sherlock emerged. A set of men’s clothes in his hand. A t-shirt. A pair of sweats. Socks.  
  
“You can use the downstairs bath. Remember to take off your socks and shoes.” Sherlock warned as he disappeared into a room near the foot of the stairs.  
  
John was reluctant. But slowly he bent down to untie his shoes. He was in the process of taking off his socks and rolling up his pants when Sherlock came back.  
  
“I left the clothes in the bathroom… try not to touch... anything... And just leave your clothes in the bath.” He instructed.  
  
John had questions. Many questions. He couldn’t help the slight smug that came to his face. But he held his face as stoic as possible. He probably looked ridiculous. Holding his mouth shut. Sherlock didn’t say anything more. Just disappearing up the stairs again.  
  
His heart beat a bit faster as he stepped off the mat. He walked slowly. Peaking around the corner into the sitting area. Looking towards the kitchen. Every thing was… neat. This was the last place they should be. Molly wasn’t going to be happy.  
  
He tried not to drip onto the floors, but it was difficult. He reached the doorway to what seemed like the spare bedroom. And it was carpeted. John felt a bit defeated as the anxiety swelled in him. But then he noticed that a roll of Christmas wrap paper stretched from the doorway to the bathroom door. Sherlock must have rolled it out to keep from dirtying the carpet.  
  
Each step he took ruffled the paper. He kept thinking of a library. Of the librarians who would pop out shushing students who were too loud. That’s what he was expecting. But he finally made it to the bathroom. The spare clothes set aside by the sink. Toiletries lined the bath. A set of towels on the rack. He could smell himself. The distinction clear in the midst of a bathroom overwhelmed with a floral scent.  
  
For all of the worry from stepping through the front doors. It all went away as soon as the hot water sprayed over him. A welcome sensation realizing he had been freezing. He watched as the mystery grime went down the drain. He used the entirety of the shampoo and wash in the bottles. The smell still stuck in his nose. No doubt just a remnant from the earlier experiences. When he was satisfied, he came out of the shower. Using the soft towels. Rubbing it over his head to dry his hair. He grabbed the hand towel. Wiping it over the steamed mirror. He looked at his reflection. And he couldn’t help the chuckle that eventually became a throaty laugh.  
  
It really was funny. Of all the situations…

His stomach rumbled then. He was probably just hungry. Cause this was ridiculous. All of it. Hypoglycemia getting the best of him as he continued to laugh.  
  
He left the soiled clothes in the tub. Having tried to rinse them as best he could while in the shower. Putting on the clothes Sherlock had left for him. He recognized them as belonging to Sherlock. They were too large for him. But he was just thankful for something clean.  
  
He came out to find the paper that had lined the floor gone. Walking slowly out into the bedroom. He took a deep breath as he peaked out the guest room door. To see Sherlock. Also showered and in clean clothes. On his knees cleaning the floor with a wet wipe, wiping away whatever droplets had been left behind with one hand. The other hand, holding up the bag that held John’s jacket.  
  
John became a bit more serious then, “Ahem.”

Sherlock looked up then to John. Noticing that he held the jacket still. Sherlock looked away, guiltily then. Realizing the sentiment behind the jacket.  
  
“We’ll have it cleaned back up. I’ll get it back to you soon…. Nothing I can do about our shoes though,” motioning to the trash bag, which John assumed had their shoes, as well as the crumpled up paper from the guest room floor, “Not much you can do with leather once its been through… _that_.” Emphasis on, that.  
  
“What are we doing _here_ , Sherlock?” John asked. A stupid question really.  
  
But Sherlock picked up on what he was implying. Why did Sherlock have a key to Molly’s flat. Why did he have extra clothes to spare. Why was Sherlock worried about the state of the house. Why was Sherlock Holmes cleaning up a mess. Sherlock never cleaned. Sherlock never worried.  
  
“Well we couldn’t very well walk through London like that.” Sherlock said exasperated. Avoiding the unasked questions.  
  
Sherlock sighed, taking a breath, “I ordered food. Should be here soon. Feel free to sit,” Sherlock said, as he put the plastic bags that contained both John and Sherlock’s coat into a box. Both sealed inside another bag for good measure. John doubted anything could be done to salvage the jackets though.  
  
John looked into the sitting area. A bit unsure. But he felt loads better now. Everything certainly smelled better. Without their former reeking selves taking away all breathable air.  
  
Sherlock walked past him with the trash bag. Heading to the back of the flat through a back door. John assumed to the bins.  
  
It was all so domestic. This was unchartered waters. John wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never been here without Molly. Thinking as he sat down on the sofa.  
  
He had tried talking to Sherlock after… Eurus. But eventually the conversations dropped. And John stopped wondering. It never came up. At least not really. And everything went back to normal. The cases. Rosie. The rare friend outings with Greg, Molly. Sometimes even Anderson.  
  
Everything was back to normal. Well. Almost everything. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t suspect something. That random inkling at the back of his mind when he noticed the subtleties. Occasionally he’d glance up, noticing them looking to each other. A smirk on their faces. In a seemingly private joke. The way Sherlock’s hand lingered on Molly’s back when they were dropping by the morgue. The fact that Molly was around a little more often than before. Helping Sherlock on cases outside of Bart’s when John wasn’t on hand.  
  
Everything was _subtle_. His observations rare and far between. He’d say it was luck he even caught those moments, but altogether it added up to something.  
  
_‘i love you’_  
   
It made sense. Perfect sense.  
  
John had never asked. So there never came a time for Sherlock to deny anything. But still. It was a bit… disappointing that he wasn’t made aware of whatever Sherlock and Molly were. It was different. But also ...good.  
  
The front door bell rang. Sherlock was still gone so John made to go open it. Noticing a new mat now laid out in front of the door. Before opening the door he saw money clipped on an entry way table, a small sign on the clip that said “for take-away.”  
  
John paid and thanked the delivery man. Taking in the Chinese food. His stomach rumbled again at the smell of the food. He looked to the closed boxes. Ready for whatever they contained. Walking to the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock was already laying out place mats for them. Plates and silverware stacked in the center of the table.

Everything was surprising John today. Everything.  
  
“Molly is _very_ clean... neat. I told her once. A bit OCD in my opinion but she denies it.” Sherlock remarked, trying to break the tension.  
  
John didn’t say anything. He was bit flabbergasted to be honest. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that Sherlock and Molly might actually be a thing.  
  
He placed the food on the table.  
  
“I found this Chinese place about two months ago. Started getting take-out there quite often. Their delivery time is impeccable. And they stay open quite late,” Sherlock rambled on about this newfound delicacy as he sat down, spooning out food onto his plate. Handing John the utensils to help himself.  
  
“Are we not going to talk about this?” John interrupted. Not angry. Just in disbelief.  
  
Sherlock kept things private. For a reason. Eurus was a reason. A man in his position would certainly have enemies. Something like this. John understood his reasons for keeping it all private. But why hadn’t they told him.  
  
Sherlock stopped talking then. Swallowing the food that he had in his mouth. John watched as his expression changed. Watched as he thought about his words.  
  
“What do you want to know?”  
  
“How long?”  
  
“Longer than you’d think.”  
  
“How. Long?”  
  
Defeated, Sherlock replied, “There’s a reason Eurus knew about Molly, John.” He still avoided the question, but that alone tipped John off that this was something from even _before_ Eurus.  
  
John realized he was angry. He didn’t want to be. He should be happy for his friends. But still. Molly knew about the Fall. She _knew_ everything.  
  
_I need the one person, who, unlike me, learned to see through your bullshit long ago._  
  
He was an idiot.  
  
He heard the front door open then.  
  
“Sherlock,” Could hear Molly’s voice come through the wall. Could hear her opening the closet door, probably to hang her jacket. “Sherlock?”  
  
“In the kitchen.” Sherlock replied. Sherlock threw him a look.  
  
“I tried texting you, but… oh, hi! John!” She didn’t seem surprised that John was there. At least not a surprise of “ _oh my gosh, you know about our secret relationship_ ,” just surprised in that she just wasn’t expecting him to be there. Probably a bit different from her usual routine when she came home. But she looked pleased to see him. Happy even.  
  
“Oh, Chinese. I’m starving.” She exclaimed. “Something smells horrid in the entry way. What did you two get up to?” She didn’t wait to hear a response. Just making small talk John supposed. “I’ll be back in a second.” She said as she left to run up the stairs.  
  
“So… it _wasn_ ’t a secret.” John said. Not a question. Just a statement.  
  
“It isn't,” Sherlock sighed, “We’re just not… public... about… _it_." He could tell Sherlock was a bit at a loss of how to describe  _it._ "And it isn’t something we blabber to every living soul either.” He added quickly.

Probably a stipulation that John should abide by as well, now that he was in this non-existent loop. John didn’t know what to say. He looked down at his empty plate for a bit, clearing his throat.

“Well, this looks good," he said as he reached for the food. Sherlock only looked at him. Trying to deduce what he was thinking.  
  
Molly emerged a moment later. Her hair in a bun on her head. Not in the ponytail she had when she walked in moments ago. Wearing lounge clothes as well. Probably noticing the state both John & Sherlock were in.  
  
John hadn’t noticed the third place setting at the table. But it was already there. Molly sat down grabbing the utensils to put food on her plate. She asked about their case. About what happened after they left the lab earlier in the day.

Sherlock told her about the incident with the sewers. And John actually laughed about it this time. Sherlock amused, telling her odd tidbits that John had missed.  
  
It was a good evening. A good ending to the day.  
  
John walked out of the guest bedroom door, just finishing washing his hands. And he stopped. Looking up to see Sherlock and Molly at the sink washing dishes. Talking and smiling quietly to themselves.  
  
They didn’t notice him.  
  
Sherlock stopped suddenly. Holding Molly’s hand in his own. Both their hands dripped of dish water, yet he brought it to his his lips and left a kiss on the back of her hand.  
  
Something obviously funny, since Molly then splashed him with water from the sink. He could hear Sherlock chuckling as Molly giggled.    
  
It was all so domestic, yes. But it was everything John had hoped for his friend.  


End file.
